The Wild Improbable


A boy child born. And what will become of him?
Dusky-skinned, asleep, then waking;
a helpless husk of humanity
while a world waits to be born.

Small-curled hands are stars.
Eyes: star bright too.
Enough to make any mother cry.

Darkness outside, and cock crows;
Cry carries harsh across implacable landscape;
Barren fields, uneasy borders,
Troubled tribes and soldiers vigil.

The wild improbable is best,
and kings come to find sweet rest;
Gold is the best of metals, in case of a king.

But of what country is he come,
what territory, scope or dominion
of hope will he command?
If he is king, then what are we?

Frankincense is sweet, but it's for sacrifice
in holy places. Priests for frankincense-
a child wants joy. The fabulous boy
grows as we stand here, sit here, watching.

Did I mention myrrh? What sort of gift
is that? A child born to die, my death too
if he dies. Then why do we carry this cairn
of misgiving, heavy luggage and long nights
so far from home.

Look: the child smiles.
His outstretched hands could catch a star,
spin it wildly, boldly.
Let the whole world dance,
and all time hang suspended from his
small cry.

Two millenia, a sleeping Bride awakes;
A world waits a new birth,
And all creation lies longing.



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• © 2005 Len Hjalmarson.• Last Updated on September 9, 2005